


Devotion, Addiction

by james_graves



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:28:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22635973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/james_graves/pseuds/james_graves
Summary: When he finally turns to her, he cocks his head to one side, and, “You were one of Sammy’s teachers, right? Way back. So why are you bugging me about your little existential dilemma and not him?”You’re more honest, is the answer that almost slips off her tongue.Or: An old teacher of Sam’s remembers the Winchesters, and meets them again years later.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 10
Kudos: 166





	Devotion, Addiction

Eliza remembers Sam Winchester. Vaguely, of course, with bits and pieces missing, because it’s been years, decades- but still, she remembers.

He was a small kid. Clever, oh so clever, but small. Skinny. Quiet, too- not just the type of quiet where he didn’t like to speak up in class, but more than the floorboards didn’t creak when he walked, he didn’t huff or sigh or groan his displeasure, he just- _was_.

There wasn’t much more to it- to him- which was the exact thing that struck out to her: he was always just there, in the background, like he was trying to sink into the wallpaper.

She remembers his older brother, too. _Dean_. God, how Sam had adored him; was all he could talk about, once she’d gotten him to open up a little. Dean turned up every afternoon without fail, scuffed leather jacket, hand stretched out, and when the kids all rushed to gather their bags and coats, he’d say, “Sammy,” quietly, in a gruff kind of voice, and Sam- she’d tried calling him Sammy once; his face had screwed up something sour as he bit down on his tongue- would perk up and go lapping like a dog, grasp Dean’s hand tight like he never wanted to let go, like Dean would disappear and he’d be alone forevermore.

She hated it sometimes because God, Dean, he- she hated to say it, but she hadn’t been particularly hopeful. He flunked every class he could and smoked out in the back field and enjoyed, _relished_ in fighting, beating up, other students- and not just those in his year, either- and it was exactly that: a beating. She’d only seen him like that once, but those poor kids hadn’t stood a chance. Dean was only fifteen, but the boys he was up again- there had been four or five of them, that time- each had a couple stone on him, and he still brought them all to the mud. Got out of it with a split lip and a black eye and a loose tooth, and oh, how he had grinned up at Eliza afterwards. When she’d finally reached them, he’d been crouched over Tyler James, a boy in the year above, and Tyler had been in hospital for two weeks afterwards- he’d broken his nose, his cheekbone in two places, and he’d needed surgery to set his jaw on top of it all.

And Sam didn’t blink an eye.

God, how she hated seeing the kids like that. Hated the speculation that followed- about their past, their homes, where they’d end up in a few years’ time.

She tried to see in Dean what Sam saw, she honestly tried, and it haggled her, sometimes- seeing the absolute, unchanging, _blind_ faith, obedience, Sam had for his brother. He’d leave the group of kids he’d eventually warmed up to- the ones that had managed to draw smiles and giggles from Sam- in half a heartbeat, run out in the middle of goodbyes as soon as he heard Dean’s, “Sammy.”

All without a moment’s hesitation.

Dean’s voice was hard and rough and not like a teenager’s should be at all. Sam didn’t seem to mind, though, just beamed up at Dean like he was his saviour; so, so in love.

She remembers them both in the years after they leave. They had only been in town for two months, maybe one, maybe three- she couldn’t say she was particularly surprised about that, either- but she remembers nonetheless. A lesson, maybe.

Perhaps she should have gotten more involved, intervened, put a stop to it. Perhaps she would have just made it worse.

She just- she should have tried harder.

But she thinks about them less in the new year: her students start dying, one after the other; again, again, again.

Her class goes from 31 to 24 in a month.

Too many funerals. Too many little coffins.

Of course, that’s when Sam comes back. Sam and Dean both.

They’re FBI now, decked out in crisp black suits. And they ask her questions about the kids, Dean with cold lead eyes and Sam with sweetness and sympathy and all she can think is- _at least he turned out a kind boy, a kind man._

She isn’t sure they remember her, and she doesn’t blame them, not being the brief flash- the fact that they’d plagued her for decades, followed her around whilst she wasn’t a blip on their radar- and then she thinks of how many schools they attended, how many teachers Sam had, how many boys Dean beat in the playground.

But when the- the _thing_ comes, and Sam and Dean kill it in front of her, no fault in their movements- _no hesitation_ , a part of her wants to scream- she isn’t thinking of that. She’s just. Scared. For herself, for the children in her class that have already been bled dry by this creature. For Sam and Dean. For the life they live, every day.

“Why do you do this?” she asks Dean when he’s in the bathroom, cleaning blood off of the cuffs of his shirt.

He’s stood over the sink, silent. The only noise is the running water.

Finally, Dean looks up, raises an eyebrow and meets her eyes through her reflection in the mirror.

“Why do I do what?” His voice is curt and impatient and she understands why Sam does the talking, usually.

“This job. You don’t- nobody knows what you do, Dean. You just run around the country, saving people, until, what- something finally kills you?” She’s getting quite hysteric, she realises, and tries to steady her voice. “Aren’t you afraid?”

 _Of what?_ she imagines Dean saying. Death, she supposes; thinks he’d have a painful death, dreadfully young. Or perhaps he’s afraid of the monsters he faces, human and not- if, some days, the gun trembles and he misses the target.

The silence drags and it feels like it’s stretched out over Eliza’s mouth, suffocating her slowly, making her bite her tongue and swallow her words.

Dean sighs, rips down some paper towels, dries off his hands- all without saying a word.

When he finally turns to her, he cocks his head to one side, and, “You were one of Sammy’s teachers, right? Way back. So why are you bugging me about your little existential dilemma and not him?”

 _You’re more honest_ , is the answer that almost slips off her tongue.

That’s when it hits her: Dean remembers her, even when Sam doesn’t have a clue.

“Don’t take it personally,” Dean says, lips quirked slightly, before they settle flat again. Eliza wonders if he can smile. “It was a tough year for Sammy. 1994, right?”

“I- yes. He was a brilliant boy.”

Dean looks extraordinarily sad, but it’s just for a second before it disappears. She doubts it was even there at all.

“He sure was,” Dean says, and his lips twist around the words. “He got to Stanford, if you’re interested. Pre-law.”

It only confuses Eliza more. “Then- why is he doing this? Why are _you_ doing this, Dean?”

Dean huffs a laugh. “Oh, come on. Like you expected something else for me? Bet you’d thought I’d end up rotting in jail or dead in an alley. With a needle in my arm, maybe? Or a bullet from a guy I pissed off one too many times? So, what’s it matter to you that I’m actually doing some good in the world?”

Eliza’s cheeks feel uncomfortably warm. She opens her mouth, then closes it again. Crosses her arms across her chest.

Dean sighs.

He seems to do a lot of that.

After a moment of deliberating- trying to find the words, maybe- Dean says, “It’s the family business.”

His voice takes on a jilted tone. Eliza isn’t sure whether it’s meant to be a joke or not.

“Look, lady- it’s flattering, honestly. Your concern, that is. But it’s not necessary. We’re- we’re fine. We’re alive.” Dean coughs. “We’re helping people, people like you.”

Eliza steels herself. “But this life- where will you go, after this?”

“To the next job,” Dean says. “To the next person who needs our help.”

Dean looks at her with those dead eyes and she wants to scream at him.

And then she remembers that fifteen-year-old boy who beat down other kids, who spat blood on the grass and smiled at her like he’d done nothing wrong. And she wonders.

Wonders how many more kids he’s beat down. How many kids he couldn’t save. How many he chose not to.

“Dean?”

It’s Sam. He’s poking his head around the bathroom door, and he flashes her a brief smile before looking at his brother.

It’s not quite blind devotion anymore, she thinks.

It’s something more.

Dean clears his throat, inclines his head to her in farewell, before he leaves the bathroom, drawn out like a puppet on a string. And Sam, his eyes don’t leave his brother- he tracks Dean’s movements carefully, holds open the door, only turns back to Eliza to offer another plastic smile after Dean is halfway down the hallway.

So no, it isn’t blind devotion anymore; she’s right about that. They’re something much, much worse- there’s no convincing, no words that could weasel inside their heads, because they’re the kind of devoted that have seen each other stripped bare and broken and they don’t care.

(After all, Dean trades his soul because he’s a shell without Sammy, and Sam drinks demon blood just for the chance to get Dean back.)

So, yes, Eliza remembers Sam Winchester- remembers Dean, too- and, a lot of the time, she wishes she couldn’t.


End file.
